


Manly? Yes, But I Like It Too

by Riffler



Category: Ultimate Spider Man - Fandom, Ultimate XMen
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 09:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10873590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riffler/pseuds/Riffler
Summary: This story is a spin-off from Spray Evenly Until Slightly Damp, by Azurine, written with her permission. It takes place in the Ultimate Universe. This is Logan's point of view of those events.





	Manly? Yes, But I Like It Too

Manly? Yes, But I Like It Too

 

Who would have guessed that a stop at Girshwin's to unwind, refuel and mull over the last few months' insane events would end with him shot six ways to Sunday, holding his own steaming, stinking guts in his hands?

That blonde had duped him. Easily, if he was honest about it. Sashayed through the door like she owned the place, talking him up, offering to buy his lunch. Admiring his so-called 'hero' status. Like she knew coming in he was distracted, vulnerable, even, to her attention. She smelled of wood smoke, musk, and steely determination. Hotter 'n Texas in July, with that golden hair and those blazing eyes, just what the shrink ordered. He'd bet a c-note that behind closed doors she was just as volatile as Red had been... Logan groaned softly, scrubbing at his face, recoiling from the memory of the damage he'd inflicted on Jean's soul. For surely that was what he'd done, with his twisted loyalties, and equally twisted desires. 

Just what kind of sad, despicable fuck was he? The worst, no doubt about it.

Maybe it was fate, maybe it was what he deserved, after his big deception. After his attempts to screw everyone over. Xavier remained alive and well. But Scott had paid a nearly fatal price. Logan was glad Scott had made it, as well as Charles, relieved he wasn't sitting here now listening to their dismal, dead voices whispering inside his head, accusing, judging. Condemning.

He was accomplishing all of that just fine by himself.

Blondie here would be a welcome distraction, help to wash that bitterness away. Help him to forget, at least for a while, and move on. 

It wasn't until the diner'd gone completely silent that he pulled himself out of his ruminations and realized she'd slipped away. Never returned from that trip to the can, and it looked like the cook had vamoosed along with her. Place was deserted. Not a good sign. Best thing would have been to beat it the hell out of there too but he was still caught up. Preoccupied with his desperate imaginings. The taste of her mouth, the feel of her breasts. He went to the window to part the dusty blinds, realizing instantly it was a stupid move and far too late to rectify when the doors of three white vans across the street slammed open and the whole damn world exploded with machine-gun fire. 

He was hit, pummeled, dancing crazily as round after round slammed into him and through him, ripping chunks of flesh from his body, ringing off his metal skull, an endless barrage of lead and pain. The roar of the vans tearing away was his respite. With the cessation of bullets his strings were cut and he fell to the floor, unable to do anything but lie on his back and groan and bleed. 

Alarmed voices calling out pulled him out of his stupor. He had to get out before he was scooped up by a waiting accomplice or hauled to the hospital by some do-gooder citizen where he'd surely be found and finished off. He crawled to his knees and after an unsteady moment onto his feet, slipping in puddled blood, one hand pressing against a great wet hole in his belly. Trying not to think too much about what his innards would do if he took that hand away. Somehow he negotiated the diner's cramped kitchen, found a back door.

He needed a safe place to go to ground. To heal. Soon. The alley was tilting crazily and he flung out a hand--the one not already occupied--to anchor himself. What city was this, where the hell was he... God, yes. New York. Girshwin's. He struggled to dredge from his pain-addled brain the street corners nearest this shit-hole eatery, and slowly began making his way up the trash-strewn alley. 

Found it eventually, that safe place, after an interminable, hellish walk, fraught with stray pedestrians and a trio of ribby mongrels intent on sampling his leaking flesh. Amazing what even the slightest pop of a claw could accomplish. 

The back door was unlocked. Je-sus, the old woman needed to be more careful, bolt her damn doors. Why the hell didn't Parker tell her, or just do it himself. You never knew what sort of riff-raff might show up, hemorrhaging on your back porch. A break for him, though. The lock didn't exist that could keep him out but he didn't want to alarm the old girl, messing with it. He could smell the fragile, talcum powder scent of her somewhere deep inside the house. Parker wasn’t around and that was another small bit of luck. Easier to slip inside without his spider-sense or whatever the hell it was going off. 

Basement typical for an old house. Damp, a little cold. Faint musk of mouse and mildew. The smell of teenage boy and day-old jizz was rampant. Evidently Parker'd been doing some serious whacking-off down here in his man-cave, in between homework assignments. 

The room was L- shaped, the shorter arm by the stairs accommodating a computer surrounded by books stacked to eye level, a TV. A ratty old blanket-covered recliner. And a cooler, snugged up against it. Inside, a lonely can of grape soda, lying in a puddle of tepid water. 

Truly, in so many ways, this just wasn't his day. 

His mind and body were steadily drifting down to that healing coma he needed so badly to fall into. He snagged the blanket from the chair, gave it a suspicious sniff and went to the most secluded place he could find, the far corner near the washer and dryer, behind the water heater. Wearily he dropped to his knees, then to his side, pulling the blanket up, asleep even before he stopped moving.

Time passed. Something woke him, what the hell? A smell, a stink so aggressively sweet and strong his stomach rolled and he gagged, turning his head to hack a great gob of clotting blood and bile from his ravaged throat. Everything hurt. Everything itched. His skin was like fire. He struggled against the urge to rake his nails across every damn inch of broken, torn flesh. And now—now he was being poked. It was Parker, the kid was close, too close, his sharp, anxiety-ridden boy-smell piercing the sickening miasma. 

This was fucked. Logan lifted an arm and flailed irritably behind, had the satisfaction of hearing Parker jump and let out a little gasp. The kid's scent spiked into fear and he started running off at the mouth, thin voice battering and bumping, a fly buzzing against Logan’s ear. 

What the hell was he saying, something about getting cleaned up? Right. Least of my problems. Logan shut him out, let the blessed numbness of healing draw him under. It was only Peter, after all. No threat and nothing to concern himself with. 

No real need to listen to him, either. 

Most of these healing times Logan didn’t dream. Or didn't remember them, anyway. But there in Parker's basement his mind was alive with a riot of vivid images, all of them Blondie from the diner. Gorgeous, sexy and dangerous, she was taking off his clothes, lifting, shifting him this way and that as he lay curiously inert. He could feel her sultry scent curling around him. When she said something about spider strength everything stopped cold and the dream abruptly shifted. He found himself outside, beneath a sky swathed in heavy clouds, peering up into their depths. Watching as they released a gentle shower of pure, cleansing rain onto him. Sluicing over his body in trickles and streams, soothing his mind and his madly itching skin. Like fingers, alive, massaging, caressing... Seeking out his troubles, drawing his deepest, most closely-held secrets into the light, where they floated slowly away, like bubbles caught on the wind. 

And then a slick, wet hand hesitantly touched between his legs, gathering him up. The bubbles burst with comical, cartoon-like little pops.

This sure as hell wasn't no dream.

This was Parker. Kneeling beside him, handling his cock. 

Peter had removed his torn and blood-soaked clothes and had washed him, for God's sake, washed him head to toe, and the little manipulation going on now was a continuation of that endeavor. Or was it…? He was clean, dripping. Smelling of... Irish Spring? Maybe the kid had a thing about cleanliness, who knew. Pretty damn weird. He certainly was doing an extra-thorough job on his dick. So good, in fact, Logan had begun to respond. 

He wasn't into men. Or boys. Never had been. Not that he had any sort of negative issues about it. Just wasn't his thing. To the best of his knowledge, no male of any species had ever touched him there before. Most likely the flash of a canine was all it would take to send Parker scurrying. Popped claw, a sure bet. 

But... hell. Face it. This wasn’t exactly torture, now, was it? And judging by the aroma wafting from ol’ Pete it was a goddamn dream come true.

Now don’t that just beat everything all to hell?

A forgotten memory shook itself loose, of himself coming across Parker and his pals at a mall. Kid's reaction had been beyond expectation. Soon as he clapped eyes on him the poor sucker was thrown into a state of utter confusion, his thin, perspiring body exuding such an effluvium of embarrassment that Logan couldn't resist playing him a little. Tossing an arm around his shoulders, introducing himself as his cousin. Leaning close to ask his age and making a little show of a skeptical sniff or two at the ridiculously inflated answer. Parker'd gotten so tongue-tied and red in the face Logan eventually took pity and eased up, gave him some space, watching in amusement as the kid struggled to regain his composure. 

His sniffer was never wrong. Maybe he just hadn't wanted to think about it then. Whatever. But there was no question. The scent Parker’d been throwing out that afternoon wasn't embarrassment, not the majority of it, anyway. 

Nope. It was the cloying reek of a major goddamn crush.

Okay, so Spider-Man has a thing for guys. Himself in particular, if that scent was any indication. So what, wasn't any of his business. 

But right at this moment Parker was making it his business. 

He was finally, slowly released, and water, slightly warmer than body temperature, flowed over his genitals. Peter rolled Logan onto his side, deftly replacing the soggy blanket with a clean dry one. There was a long pause, broken only by the kid’s hitching, uneven breaths. Then, sure enough, he reached out again, carefully lifting Logan’s cock, gently hefting, feeling its weight. 

So how far would Parker actually take this? 

And more importantly, why was he, Logan, allowing it to happen? Difficult damn question. That dream... not the part with Blondie. The other. The cleansing rain, the feeling afterward... it was like... some kind of absolution. Left him with a strange feeling of hope. Like maybe there was a chance he could turn his back on the past years as Magneto's henchman, maybe even his rep as the baddest of all bad-asses, a damn assassin, just like the low-lifes that'd made this attempt on his life. 

So why would all of that compel him to stay his hand, lie quiet, and let Parker have his way in this of all things? 

The kid had no real idea how potentially dangerous a situation he'd put himself. Parker was young, green. Hormonally-charged, led by his cock to risk his damn life. Even though Logan was damn sure Parker figured he was asleep. Kid must be horny as all get-out. What the hell happened to that spider-sense of his? 

That thought gave him pause. Parker's spider-sense wasn't going off. Which meant (didn't it?) that the kid wasn't in danger. Wasn't about to get skewered. It was like the future was being told here: the kid was going to jack him off and he, Wolverine, was going to let him. 

This was getting weirder by the minute.

Pete was, what, sixteen years old? In high school. He could just see the headlines now: Wolverine Under Arrest! Accused of Molesting Our Very Own Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man! 

Yeah. Spidey was friendly alright. A hell of a lot friendlier than most people would ever want to know. John Q. Public would believe what they wanted to believe, the truth be damned.

Parker stopped his manipulations, gently releasing him, and sat back with a shaky little sigh. 

That it? Well. Probably a good thing, kid. For you. Left me in a state, though, didn't ya, punk. Goddammit.

Sudden rustle of movement, accompanied by a sharp change of scent. Determined, excited. Parker swung a leg over Logan’s knees, straddling him. 

Well whad’d’ya know. This little dog and pony show ain't over yet. Part of him was glad. The other part was ticked that apparently he was the only one thinking about Parker's morals. 

Fuck it. He was nobody's keeper. Never had been. Sure as hell wasn't his job, keeping Spider-Man's conscience all sparkly clean. 

Even anticipating Logan was taken by surprise when Peter leaned in and stroked his tongue from the base of Logan's aching cock all the way to the head. A long slow lick that forced the air from Logan's lungs.

And then the tongue paused, pressing softly, tremblingly, against that most sensitive spot.

Kid was scoping him out, sure as shit, pulse skipping, heart thumping in his skinny chest. A deer caught in the headlights. Probably wondering if he was about to die. Checking to make sure Logan was, y' know, still asleep. Did he really believe that? 

Apparently he did. Parker relaxed and took Logan into his mouth. Deeply, satisfyingly, in. Another little pause, but this time it wasn't no damn reality check. 

This time it was to savor. 

Another low breath escaped Logan’s throat. Couldn't help it, it all felt so good. 

His cock was as hard as the metal on his bones. 

Hell with it. They were alone. Pete was hot to suck him off and Logan was fast approaching the line of no return. The kid wasn't going to blab, and as for himself, well, he knew how to keep his yap shut. 

Total surprise, then, when Parker’s hot, excited scent was suddenly crowded out, drowned by the bitterness of shame. He eased Logan’s cock from his mouth and straightened up.

What the hell? Attack of conscience, now, Parker? Get real, buddy. I know damn well you want to finish this. And you’re sure as hell going to.

Took a moment for his throat to work but he finally managed to rasp out, “Shit, don’t stop now.”

The effect was spectacular. Kid jumped, let out a little squeak and froze, emotion rioting off him in waves. Humiliation. Guilt. Shame. Fear, for his life. And then the ol' gears must have unlocked enough to process Logan’s words because all those negative flavors flipped in an instant to surprise and joy and downright lust. 

He went to work in earnest, all former hesitation and uncertainty gone.

Ol' Peter Parker, the Spider-Kid, was giving him a goddamn blow-job. The thought made his balls tighten, his cock jump. He glanced down at the action, taking in Parker's hand as well as his lips wrapped around him, stroking, working. His closed eyes, his flushed face and wet mouth were fucking hot, and why was that, for God's sake? Damn you, Parker... Logan grabbed Peter's hair in his fists, fighting not to pull too hard and hurt him. 

Everything fell away. Nothing mattered, except what Parker was doing. An occasional bit of fumbling suggested this was the kid's first time but he made up for any lack of finesse by sheer creativity and enthusiasm. When Logan responded to something he particularly liked Parker kept it up with wonderful little embellishments that upped the ante and elicited a groan from between clenched teeth. He pulled Parker's hand away, pressed gently on the back of his head. The kid didn't hesitate, taking in nearly the entire length of him, and on each upstroke did a sort of swirl with his tongue that nearly made Logan cry out, it was so exquisitely good. 

By now his hands were shaking a little but he didn't care. Pressure in his groin was building, a gathering force, rising up from deep within... oh, it was gonna be sweet. He opened his hands, pushed his fingers deeper into Peter's hair, touched his damp face, cracked his own eyes open for another glimpse of those wet lips sliding up and down. 

And oh hell, here it comes. The surge, the swell, the sweet ache of holding back as long as possible, the exquisite moment giving in to the irresistible need to release. 

Getting mind and mouth quickly coordinated was a very unwelcome task. Somehow Logan croaked, “You gonna swallow?” hoping the kid knew what the hell he meant because there really was no time to explain it to him.

Little nod of a response. Yeah, that's the way, Parker. Here’s the mother lode, and it's all for you, ya horny bastard.

He pushed down on Parker's head, thrust up with his hips, felt the head of his cock slip over the back of Peter's tongue as he spurted, once, twice, and then again. 

Pete was struggling a little, bucking against his hand, a strange gurgle issuing from his throat.

“Swallow, swallow, swallow,” Logan murmured to help the kid out, hands still firmly in place, not wanting that warm mouth to leave his cock just yet. 

Pete swallowed hard, twice, and wasn't that a kick, the convulsive push of his tongue pressing him against the roof of his mouth. Logan found he had gripped his fingers into Parker's hair again and slowly loosened his fists, lifting the kid's mouth away from his softening cock.

Parker was huffing, looking anywhere but him. Wiped his lips with shaky fingers, and the sweat from his brow, glancing back at the stairs. Probably pretty damn anxious to go someplace private and take care of business. Logan wondered if he was going to ask him to reciprocate. Doubtful he had the balls.

And anyway, that just plain wasn't going to happen. As in not in this lifetime. 

The kid was looking more and more unsettled, head turning this way and that as if seeking the quickest escape from his unusual and alarming position atop Logan’s legs. 

“Not bad for a rookie,” Logan murmured, feeling an amused pity, tossing him a bone. A bone. He nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity. 

“Thanks.” Peter rose from Logan's legs, stepping away, standing awkwardly. Logan watched from behind impossibly heavy lids. Kid didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. For once.

“Water?” he murmured. Damn, he was wiped. Needed to sleep. Now.

“Y-- yeah, hang on.”

Too tired to keep his eyes open. He pulled the blanket up around his shoulders and turned onto his side with a jaw-cracking yawn, catching a glimpse of Parker’s somewhat spraddle-legged return from the sink. He hid his smile, gulping down the cool water gratefully. 

When he awoke next, everything had changed. He was healed and fit, ready to go back out into the world. Pick up the pieces of his fucked-up life, attempt to put them into some sort of order. Maybe even try to make amends. First thing, though, was figure out who the hell had been behind that assassination attempt, and why. 

He dressed, gazing with satisfaction at his clean, healed skin, pleased not to be covered in his own dried guts and gore, the usual state he found upon waking from the healing sleep. His clothes had been washed too, and that was also a pleasant thing. Parker came down as he was pulling on his boots, bringing along a friend, a cute little red-haired spitfire named MJ. She brought him soup, matzo-ball. Delicious, hot and filling. Spouted off something about wet-dog smell, looking him in the eye as she did. Logan bit back a snarky reply. New leaf. She'd fed him. She was okay.

Parker was sending out some weird-ass vibes, though. Wanted him gone, that was plain. That was understandable. Well, he was willing and, finally, able to oblige.

“I owe ya,” he said as he moved to the stairs. “And I don't say that lightly.” Parker's skittering gaze instantly fastened on him, a hound on a scent. Uh-huh. Led by his goddamn cock. Teenagers. What the hell. But the kid was okay, too. He'd done him a good thing, here. In more ways than one. 

Logan allowed a smile to lift the corners of his lips. “I owe ya.” 

Let Parker take whatever he wanted from that.

He slung on his jacket and stopped dead, lifting an arm to his nose. 

“What the hell did you do to my jacket?” 

Silence.

“It's Febreze,” MJ piped up. 

“It flamin’ reeks.” He held the offending arm away from his nose, but it didn’t help. The jacket had been liberally coated with the stuff.

Peter was looking a little green around the gills. “I—I’m sorry, I just, I mean I thought... Uh, well, the way I looked at it was, uh, like, um-” 

Let me help sort out your thoughts. “Shut the hell up, Parker.”

He made his way to the door. Halfway up the stairs he turned. “The Irish Spring, though? That wasn’t half bad.”

He left them startled and staring.

Ah, it was good to be away. Logan smiled as he walked. 

Ol' Parker was going to have one hell of a time explaining that to his little friend.


End file.
